Talisman
by words without
Summary: 'The scarf's really come into its own self these last three days, become a creature of religious magnitude, a holy icon, the body and blood.' Brian/Justin, spoilers for the end of season 1 and start of season 2.
1. Part 1

AN: This story should not come as a surprise to anyone who's been following my tumblr the last few weeks. It was written as a one-shot but was divided due to length (I tried to end it but it wouldn't stop and suddenly it broke 20 pages and I don't know). I think Brian may be a bit too sappy, especially considering this is season 1-2 Brian, but I couldn't help myself. **EDIT: **name corrections

* * *

_**Talisman**_

Brian Kinney has never felt better.

The hallway is long and beige and smells like bleach. The intercom clicks on every so often but never with anything important to say. Orderlies trundle by with trolleys and don't look at him. Brian sits forgotten in the hospital and feels great.

There's a nervous energy making his limbs twitch, making his fingers skitter in his lap. He stands up because sitting suddenly won't work, he's too hyped, he needs to move. From his own metal folding chair, Michael looks up at him with concern. Are Mikey's eyes tearing? _Precious_.

(His own have been dry for an hour at least.)

"Where are you going?"

Brian lifts his shoulders in an expansive shrug, his coat threatening to slip. That would be a shame. Such pricey fabric on the floor.

"Brian?"

This time he disregards his best friend altogether. They've been sitting here for three hours—four hours?—without saying a word, and frankly Brian doesn't see why that ought to change. He feels as though he's on the tail-end of the biggest high off the weirdest drug, and he's been very high off a lot of very weird drugs in his life.

"Um…" Michael stands up too, because heaven for-fucking-give he misses a chance to play nursemaid. "You know, it's been a while. We could ask how he's doing…"

And now Brian doesn't feel fine, now he's fucking angry, because earnest Mikey is going to make him say it and remember. "He took a bat to the skull, how do you _think_ he's doing?"

His first words in four hours, and he can't make them sound as livid as he'd like. There's a tremor to his voice much like the tremor in his hands.

Michael says, "Maybe he's out of surgery, at least. Come on, don't panic. People have survived worse."

"Save me the sanctimony before I puke."

"It's not sanctimony. It's the truth."

"Whatever."

"I called Ted and Emmett and everyone, by the way. As soon as we know more they're gonna come but they don't want to clutter up the hallway—"

"What, like us?" Brian laughs because his laugh is rarely friendly and usually a threat. "Neither one of us is his parents. They're not going to tell us anything. Oh, hey." He widens his eyes. "Do you think _he_ gave me power of attorney too? Life and death at my fingertips, you know, I've really missed that."

But his sarcasm falls flat against Michael, who just stands there with soft, sympathetic eyes. Brian says, "How about you take your hopeful bullshit and go fuck yourself?" because maybe that will work. Because he was having such a nice, muddled time before. Because he won't be pitied. He won't give anyone the chance.

All Michael says is, "What, and leave you alone?"

"I'm a big boy, Mikey. I know how to clean my dick and everything. Want to see?"

Michael says patiently, "You just spent four hours staring at a wall. I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh." Brian draws his lips back, showing teeth. "Great. Lucky me."

"I know how upset you are, ok?"

"You don't know shit," Brian snaps, but not loud enough, because his ears hear other things and suddenly they're ringing with the crack of wood against bone, the thud of body striking concrete, suddenly he's sick with the smell of car exhaust and he could _strangle_ Mikey, right here and now.

"I know that when you're really upset you get really mean," Michael says. "It's fine. But if you're trying to get me to leave you're wasting your breath. That's all."

"Get you to leave? No, stay here and let's have a party. Tell Emmett to put on a dress and Ted to bring his meth-head, you know they're always good for a laugh, and, hm, why don't we start an orgy in the emergency room? Bet they have some real hot doctors. Oh! Speaking of doctors, where on _earth_ is—"

"In Portland," says Michael, evenly. "I've still got my ticket. I'll meet him later. And I'm staying with you tonight."

"Fine." The rage leaves as fast as it came. "Do what you want."

Michael puts a hand on his shoulder. The load there is so tremendous he can't shake it off. "Listen, it's going to be fine."

Brian ignores him.

"It is. Justin's more stubborn than you, he's not gonna…" But then Michael's face screws up with disgust, with sympathy, and he lowers his hand. "Christ, Brian," he says with his voice starting to shake, "will you take that thing off?"

Slowly, Brian touches the scarf hanging limp around his neck. His fingers land on silk first. Then blood. Strange that he doesn't remember taking it back from Justin, but here it is, sodden and heavy. It clings to his skin, clammy, moving with his breathing like it's got breath of its own.

He'd given it to Justin. He'd made the mark that made what followed.

"Justin's going to be fine. So take that off and let's, I don't know, are you hungry? You wanna get something to eat?"

That's when Brian realizes that although Michael is without a doubt his best friend, right now he hates him with a rushing fervor. Mikey is so sincere and loyal, so concerned with the rights and wrongs he finds in his crap comic books, and usually Brian appreciates that polar opposite, but not tonight. Usually he relies on that balance, that chance to point out the good in Michael for every flaw of his own, the saving grace of friendship. But not tonight.

Tonight has proven that Mikey's righteousness is bullshit, all of it, every sticky platitude. Tonight Brian knows, just like he's always known, that the world is vicious and Michael is wrong. And because he won't admit his wrongness even now, because he is so in denial, because he gave up his own happiness for Brian yet again and somehow he dares act content with his choice…because Michael is wrong Brian hates him.

Nothing lasts, nothing good, pity is an insult and self-pity a waste of time. Depending on others will get you nothing but a ring of blood around your neck.

"Brian, are you listening to me?"

Michael looks like he wants to pull the scarf off himself, and even the Brian that is nauseous looking at him doesn't want him to lose his fingers. So he leans in very close, bending to get in Michael's face, and he says loud and firm and enunciated, "Hey, Mikey? Go to Wyoming and choke on David's dick. Not mine."

There's a certain thrill in watching Michael try valiantly to keep the hurt off his expressive face. Just like there was a thrill in almost punching his father, in telling Melanie he wasn't signing any papers. In showing up late to a high school prom and turning it into his personal stage. In flaunting himself and his—but what can he call Justin? None of the usual words work, his boyfriend, his lover, his one-night-fuck, he doesn't know what Justin is but annoying, but _his_. And that is also a certain thrill. His to ruin, because that is his power.

Mikey doesn't get it. Mikey is short and small and built for hapless mothering; Brian is tall and sharp-edged and made of something sour. Something malformed in an expensive, black jacket. It's that malformation that lets him say horrible things to his best friend and not really care, it's that sour smell that has him feeling so delightful now. Brian at his most typical, and only Mikey could be surprised.

And again he hears the crack and the thud and the voice caught helpless around a giggle, saying, "It's the best night of my _life_."

Michael talking is something Brian can only half-focus on: "Trying to piss me off isn't gonna work. You called me, remember?" Which, no, he doesn't, not really. Just like the scarf around his neck, it's something that happened to some other Brian. But Michael has a hand on his and is pulling him back to the folding chairs.

Brian lets himself be pushed into his seat, and only after he's steady does Michael say, "Portland's in _Oregon_." Then a sigh: "And I'm still staying with you."

Brian says dully, "I know."

But it's not all bad. By now the drug-energy is riding his veins hard again, soaking him in comfortable disconnect. Like a handful of valium washed down with hard liquor. Like screwing a total stranger who never says anything and leaves after it's done. Like closing his front door on some heart-sick teenager with a mess of blond hair who didn't know _shit_ about himself before Brian fucked him, who had the nerve to stick around.

Tonight was the prom, tonight he made a surprise visit, tonight the boy who loves him is dying with his skull cracked open and tonight Brian Kinney has never felt better.

_-i-_

Four things happen that make him decide to leave the hospital.

The first is the sight of Debbie rushing down the hall, her coat thrown over flowery pajama bottoms and her wig askew. "Mom?" says Michael when he sees her, getting to his feet, "I told Uncle Vic to tell you not to come until we knew…"

Debbie cuts him off with one of her bone-crushing hugs. "Sunshine's in the _hospital_ and you think I was gonna wait at home?" she shrills. "He's practically my son! I helped convince him to go to that stupid prom!"

"I know, I know, but Mom, it's not like we can see him right now anyway."

"That doesn't matter," she says. "We need to be here for him." She finally releases Michael and takes a step back, turning to run her eyes over Brian. He knows she's never quite liked him—being resigned to his existence isn't the same thing—so it's disconcerting to be given her kindness. "Oh, honey," she says softly, reaching out to pat his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Brian jerks away from her touch. He grabs the scarf to keep it secure and Debbie and Michael both blanch, but Debbie is faster to force a watery smile. "Vic's parking the car," she says. "I would have driven us both into a tree."

"Mom, does Uncle Vic have a license?"

"What does that matter?" She's pacing now, settling into the crisis, devising her strategy. "He still knows some of the doctors in this place, I figure maybe one of them might tell him something. You know, be a contact."

"He knows the AIDS doctors, not the…the brain surgeons."

Debbie's face crumples, although she does her damndest to hide it. "Still," she says, but after a moment she sinks into one of the folding chairs. "Jesus," she whispers. "Oh, Sunshine."

No one says anything. Brian studies the wall, hackles rising. He is absolutely _finished_ with the color beige.

"How," Debbie begins, stops, takes a breath and starts again, "How bad is it, Brian? Was he, was it a direct hit or just…? Because the head can take more than you'd think, it's true, I dropped Michael once when he was a baby and…"

"Mom," Michael says. "I don't think he wants to talk about it right now."

The man who's been reduced to _he_ looks from mother to son and then back to beige. Debbie tries another smile. "Of course, sweetie," she says. "You're right." She stands to fuss with Michael's jacket collar; he rolls his eyes but lets her. Without looking up she asks, "Have you seen his parents yet?"

"Not yet."

"His poor mother. Oh…" Debbie rubs her forehead. "To think, I was the one who told her to just _accept_ it. That the best thing for Justin was to be out and proud! I told her he couldn't be happy otherwise!"

Michael says firmly, "You told her the truth. If he'd stayed in the closet he would have been miserable."

"He would have been safe."

"He would have been lying to himself, and it's an insult to Justin to think he'd do that. Come on, Mom. You know how brave he is."

"That's for sure," she sighs. "Going to that hellhole of a high school every day. Must have taken more courage."

Michael gives a rueful grin. "Yeah, I used to just skip class."

Debbie straightens her wig, features hardening. "Well, no use standing here wringing our hands," she says. "We'd better make plans."

That's when Brian gives up on the wall and turns his paint-stripping gaze on her. "Make plans?" he echoes. It's the first thing he's said since she's gotten here and immediately Michael looks worried.

Debbie nods. "We've gotta track down the doctors, don't we? Get some goddamn answers instead of standing around in the hallway like a bunch of lumps. What good are we to Justin out here? And I want to talk to the police, find out what they're doing with that homophobic prick who did this. I'd like to go at _his_ head with a baseball bat!"

She falters when Brian rolls his eyes, but Debbie rallies quickly: she always has. "And as for you," she says, and again she offers him kindness and again he doesn't know what to do with it besides throw it in her face. "You come with me. Vic's got a change of clothes for you in the car. And I don't want to hear any bullshit about them not being fancy-shmancy high-end labels, you hear? Take off that scarf and we'll get you sorted out."

That's when he turns and walks away. But he doesn't make it more than five steps down the hallway before the second reason arrives to stop him: Daphne, still in her prom dress, utterly hysterical. She sees Brian and careens into him, her skinny arms wrapping around his waist; he stands stiff and shocked, arms out to either side. He hasn't been seriously hugged by a girl since college, when Lindsey had too much to drink.

Something churns in his stomach and he pushes Daphne off, rougher than he should have. She's too upset to notice.

"Chris Hobbs!" she gasps at him. "That scumbag!"

Brian wonders, who told her? Michael? Who the fuck even has her number?

Then Debbie comes up, her mothering a blessing for once. Daphne lets herself be hugged, calmed down, and doesn't notice when Brian takes a step back from the whole mawkish tableau. "The police called," she says, sniffling. "They wanted to know when was the last time I saw Chris tonight. If they were fighting earlier. Whether…" Her voice cants upward with anger. "Whether Justin _came on_ to him or something."

Debbie goes as red as her hair. "What the fuck would it matter if he did?"

Brian curls his left hand into a fist and presses his knuckles into the wall, very gently. "He didn't," he says.

"Of course not, honey, but even if he did, that doesn't mean he deserved to be attacked. He's gay! He's allowed to flirt. Because this Chris Hobbs kid can't take a compliment he gets an excuse to try and murder someone? For shit's sake, Justin could have—"

Brian decides he's being quite reasonable when he lifts his hand away from the wall long enough to punch it. His knuckles burn, Daphne squeaks and Debbie _finally_ shuts up. "He. Didn't," Brian tells them, and traces the dent he's made in the plaster.

Everyone's staring at him, but he's used to that. Doesn't bother him a bit.

"Chris Hobbs didn't have any excuse," Michael says, speaking warily, as if Brian is going to leap out and bite him. "We all know that."

"Um, Brian." Daphne reaches out a hand he doesn't take. "The cops said you were the reason Chris didn't run off. You broke his leg."

(The force of the blow ran all the way up his arms while Chris Hobbs sobbed curses, and Brian wanted to crush his face in until his brain ran out his ears but the motherfucker was mewling like a frightened kitten and he couldn't remember where he'd thrown the bat and _Justin_—)

"Should've broken his head," mutters Debbie, but she sounds grimly satisfied.

Michael asks, "Brian, you talked to the cops too, right? What'd they ask? Did they say if…hey, where are you going? Brian?"

He stops at the end of the hall, spinning around so that his coat flares open. Everyone sees the blood splattered down his front from chest to thigh. He makes sure of it. "Am I allowed to go to the bathroom by myself? Is that ok with everyone? Or would you rather if Mikey held my hand?"

Brian starts walking again without waiting for an answer, leaving a trail of fallen faces in his wake, and really, what the fuck were they all expecting? Suddenly he's supposed to be the widow in mourning, clutching sleeves and rending garments? Who shall he wail with first, little Daphne or Michael's mom?

Since when does Brian Kinney grieve?

He's almost strutting now, aiming for the bathroom although he has no idea where that is, remembering with pleasure the heft of the bat in his hand. It'd been heavier than he'd expected, not that he'd ever held one before, since that sports-jock-athletic bullshit had never been his scene. Bunch of 'roided, tough-guy idiots throwing balls at each other, and then wouldn't they all come skulking behind the bleachers and beg Brian for a blowjob?

Everyone's got an act. But as long as Brian gets his pleasure, who cares? Everyone's got an act except Justin, the naïve punk, refusing to lie even when his truth made him unhappy, thinking he was in love just because Brian knew how to make him cum.

Brian knows how to make everyone cum, and that's not an act either. Doesn't Justin get it?

So busily is he fuming that he walks right into the third reason, the worst reason of them all. Somehow he's standing just outside the hospital's trauma unit, and the door to the waiting room is opening, and Justin's parents are walking out.

The last time Brian saw Justin's dad he was sitting in their tacky-straight-Americana living room, rubbing his sore ribs. The man looks like he's diminished since then, his hair shot through with grey, his weight fallen off, his face cut deep with stress. Justin's mom keeps herself apart from him, apart from everything, her teary eyes unfocused and her hand shredding a lump of tissue. The way he doesn't hold the door for her, the way she doesn't expect him to, reminds Brian that Justin had said they were divorcing. Had been sullen about it. Had seen himself the center, the cause (like he always does, for everything).

Brian stands still and watches them, and after a moment they look up and see him too.

"Oh," says Ms. Taylor, like she hasn't the strength for anything else, like that one, wavering syllable must convey everything at once. He knows she sees the blood on him, her son's blood on the man who took him away. Brian's scalp starts to itch. He tastes bile and bites his lip to keep it in.

Then Justin's dad steps forward and points a nail-bitten finger in his face, and everything goes to shit.

"How dare you," the man says, his voice so glutted with emotion it stays halfway-steady. "How dare you come here? You son of a bitch. You pervert maniac."

"Stop," says his ex-wife, "stop it, please."

"I asked you a goddamn question. What are you doing here? You're the reason he got hurt at all, aren't you? Well? He wouldn't have been—_flaunting_ himself at his own prom if you hadn't come and made him into a _symbol_. You turned him into a, a, you took _advantage_…you made him a target for all these horrible people." Mr. Taylor's eyes fill. "He was normal. He was happy. Then you came and ruined everything and now a monster's killed him. They've killed him and you're here and you don't even care."

"Stop," says Ms. Taylor again, without strength. "He wasn't happy before. You wanted him to be, you needed it. A normal, straight son. That's what you wanted."

"I wanted him to grow up! Go to college, get a job, have a family! This bastard ruined it. Took advantage of our defenseless son."

She shrieks, "He can still do all that. He's in a coma, he's not dead, and _please_, don't give me that crap about Justin being defenseless. He's stronger than you'll ever be, I've seen him since he left, he's…"

But the man is too wild with his own grief to listen to her desperation. He turns back to Brian and spits, "You must think this is hilarious. A big joke! Standing here pretending to be his, his you-know-what. But I've asked around, I've checked on you, Brian Kinney, you bet your ass I have. Fucking everything that moves, that's you, always adding to your conquests. Picking up strange men in bars and bathhouses and…what is Justin to you? Some silly kid with his head in the clouds. Why should you care you've ruined his life? You can get your _dick sucked_ elsewhere."

"Oh," says Ms. Taylor, and turns her back on both of them. Buries her face in her hands. Goes silent.

"That's what these people do, sweetheart!" he calls to her, while Brian realizes he can't remember either of their names. "That's what your son was doing to this piece of filth. Being manipulated, being lied to."

"That's not fair," says Michael, suddenly there (he's always there), and Brian jumps to hear him. He sounds scared as hell, both hands opened towards Justin's father in a plea for reason. "Brian didn't lie to him, it's not his fault. He's the only reason Justin's still alive! If you could ask Justin you know he'd agree."

"But I can't ask him, can I?"

The shouting goes on and on, but Brian, who has turned his back on several conversations tonight, isn't listening. He's watching Justin's mom instead, watching her hand press to her lips, her eyes searching the hallway for something to seize. Her son, healthy? Instead they fall on Brian. She meets his gaze and mouths something he doesn't need to hear to understand.

_He's given you everything. Can't you fix this?_

He tightens the scarf against his throat. Ms. Taylor's gaze dims, and Brian knows one thing for sure: Justin, if he dies tonight, will never have the chance to look at him with the same disappointment. Justin, if he dies tonight, will be spared a lot of grief.

_-i-_

The fourth reason for Brian's abandoning the hospital is delayed. It comes three days later, amid the comings and goings of dipshits who want to pat him and tell him to _be strong_, amid Michael's begging for him to take a nap or a drink or a bite to eat, amid his own strong odor from sitting in the same sweat-drenched suit.

It comes after a doctor Vic knows says that Justin's vitals are steady, an optimistic sign, and offers to let Brian sit with him, for a little bit, before his parents get back from the cafeteria. After Brian takes one step into the room and sees all the tubes and all the wires and Justin's sallow, swollen, unrecognizable face. After his mind slams down around the only safe thought, which is, _Fuck this, _and his legs propel him back down the hall_._

The fourth reason is that the same well-meaning doctor says, "It's looking better. We think he's going to pull through." Which sends Debbie cheering. Which lightens Michael's anxious expression. Which is not the same as, _He'll be fine_.

Which sends Brian to the exit.

In the general din no one notices him leave except Michael. Brian takes his hurt look as a caress and doesn't bother to explain.

_-i-_

In the soothing privacy of his loft, Brian sheds his layers.

His coat, his gloves, his suit jacket, his pants, he drops them one by one. His floor becomes a river of fabric smeared with blood. Into this sterile space he brings the grime of three days without showering, without shaving. His chin is only rough with stubble, because he never could grow a beard worth a damn.

Brian stands in the middle of the loft, naked except for the scarf. In the reflection off his fridge he recognizes his long limbs, his hips, his dark eyes, his penis hanging flaccid between his thighs. In the reflection he sees Michael's last frown and bites his lip.

"Whoever said I was a nursemaid, Mikey?" he asks. "Whoever said I'd do him any good?"

He turns his back on the reflection and runs a hand along the scarf. It's really come into its own self these last three days, become a creature of religious magnitude, a holy icon, the body and blood. It loops once around his neck and hangs down past his chest, to his hips. A bit lower and it might brush his groin—might make up for the hands that aren't here to stroke him, the mouth that isn't here to suck. Everything in Brian Kinney's life must serve a purpose.

The blood, long since dried, mars the silk in large, brown splotches. The stains scratch where they touch him.

The apartment is hushed in a clinical way, which is how he's always liked it. The furniture is all high-market, everything modern, everything sleek and streamlined. He walks over to his computer, where Justin's art supplies do not clutter his desk. He drifts to the couch, where Justin is not flopped over the side in Brian's bathrobe. He stands by the window, where Justin isn't pressed chest to glass, moaning as Brian finger-fucks him, fretting about being spotted by people on the street and then climaxing onto the windowpane anyway, blushing afterwards as he wipes off the ooze.

He takes the steps in one wide leap and stands by the bed, where Justin isn't, because Justin is in a coma. Brian squints, trying to see him lolling naked on the sheets, his smile so white and wide. Instead he sees the neck brace and the arm bruised by the IV needle. He sees the smile vanishing as Justin's head jerks backwards, his body twisting under the bat's impact.

Brian stalks to the bathroom, turns the shower knob as far to the left as it'll go, and when the water is so hot it steams he steps in without taking time to adjust. The scarf clings to him. He hasn't had sex since before the prom, so he pushes his hand between his legs, determined to break this bullshit record. The bat, the IV, these things want to distract him, but sex for Brian is almost a business transaction. As with any client, he doesn't let himself be put off.

Closing his eyes he pictures what he always does, a body kneeling before him, driven to distraction by Brian's touch. He imagines the quivers of this naked, faceless stranger, the wet mouth, the fluttering eyelids; he imagines the grip on his thighs, surprisingly strong, surprisingly demanding, the groans almost taunting; he imagines the tongue licking along his cock until he bucks his hips with impatience, and even then all he gets is a snicker.

He sees water streaming off the thin, hunched shoulders and the white smile and the teasing eyes peering up at him from underneath all that blond hair…

Brian ejaculates with a strangled sound, half-bellow and half-whine. His mind goes as white as the steam, as the cum dripping from his fingers, and for a blessed second there's no Justin and no hospital and no friends clustered silent at a bedside. There is nothing but messy, meaningless sex. The lovely nonentity. The ease of it.

Afterwards he washes himself off, steps out of the shower without reaching for a towel, grabs a bottle of scotch from a cabinet and settles himself in his most comfortable, stylish chair. He sits, dripping wet, no doubt ruining the upholstery, and rubs the soaked scarf with one hand while holding the scotch with the other. The stains haven't come out of the silk. Blood is a bitch to remove once it dries.

He drinks straight from the bottle, not bothering with a glass, taking long, slow sips. Until finally he finishes the last drop and bites his lip. Without thinking much of anything he chucks the glass bottle halfway across the room. It shatters against the floor, leaving gouges in the wood he knows he'll never bother to buff out.

If his breathing comes in smothered heaves there's no one to notice. If his eyes are red there's no one to see.


	2. Part 2

The next morning, Brian wakes up early, runs a mile on his treadmill, shaves and showers and puts on a good suit. He buttons the jacket over the scarf, thoroughly smoothing out the lump. Then he goes to work.

He explains his absence with, "Something came up." It goes unchallenged. Most of his day consists of wooing a potential client, which he does in suave words and fancy presentations and finally in an unused office, where he cinches the deal with a cool look and a condom. Afterwards the client is disheveled, embarrassed, half in love. Brian buttons his pants and does the commission calculations in his head.

(He ponders insurance premiums, existing coverage, bills for long-time care.)

He leaves work early, which would get anyone else fired, but he's the company hero and his boss knows it. While his coworkers slump at their desks he goes to Woody's. It takes him exactly ten minutes and one point five drinks before he leaves again, attractive stranger in tow.

The guy is toned and tanned and spikes his dark hair with too much gel. He does what they all do and _ooh_s over Brian's loft. And Brian does what he always does, which is to make witty one-liners without listening to himself speak.

The sex is good. The sex is usually good. And the man looks nothing like Justin.

It goes wrong only towards the end, when he's changing the sheets. For some reason the stranger hasn't left yet, even though he's fully dressed. Instead he taps Brian's shoulder and asks why he'd taken off all his clothes but kept that filthy scarf around his neck.

Brian grabs him by his cheap lapels and drags him through the apartment, almost cheerful as he dumps him in the hallway and closes the door on his squawking.

Later, he goes to the hospital. He makes an arrangement with a sympathetic nurse and stands out in the hall, watching through the glass, long after visiting hours are done. Justin's parents sit with him in shifts, but there's an hour or so around one in the morning where both of them are asleep elsewhere and he can keep guard undisturbed.

The nurse tells him that Justin's coma is now medically induced. He asks her without looking away from the bed about recovery chances, and he likes her because she doesn't feed him hopeful-Michael-platitudes. She tells him frankly that they won't know until Justin wakes up, but he could be brain damaged. He might not know how to walk or talk. He might not remember anyone.

Brian nods. The sight of Justin buried by all those machines is no less jarring, but he's better prepared for it now. That isn't really the kid in there, he thinks, not all of him, and he pats the scarf.

Next morning, Brian wakes up early, runs on his treadmill, goes to work, does everything much the same except he doesn't fuck anyone in the office. His cell phone is overwhelmed with voicemail, mostly from Mikey: where _is_ he? Why isn't he at the _hospital_? Justin would _want_ him there, even his mom agrees. Eventually Brian turns his phone off. He leaves work exactly on time and heads for Woody's.

And later, he goes to the hospital.

The night nurses learn to expect him. They make a fresh pot of coffee when he arrives and don't say anything when he pulls out a flask and spikes it. He promises to sue them for slander if they tell Justin's parents or his friends that he comes by.

He memorizes the colors of the machines if not the noises, for he never steps inside the room. Never stands at the bed, touching Justin's hand, watching for a response. Mostly he's quiet out in the hallway, but there are occasional triggers: an orderly comes at an unexpected hour to change the catheter and it seems so invasive, so insulting. Willful Justin is helpless before those prodding hands. Anyone could touch him.

Brian thinks he sounds perfectly calm when he tells the orderly to fuck off, and thinks he sounds calmer still when he tries to take a swing at a security guard. Fortunately the sympathetic night nurse has been watching him forgo the coffee and drink straight from the flask for the past hour. She lets him back in the building the next night, clearly unamused.

"Why are you wearing that?" she asks him later, because he's taken off his jacket and the scarf ends are resting against his stomach as usual. "Looks like a health hazard."

"It brings out the color in my eyes," he says. For some reason he isn't bothered when she asks. It feels right to have it visible here, where he can see it, where Justin can see it should he wake up. So they can both remember what Brian Kinney is.

Justin, in pieces. Justin the romantic. Brian watches the machines flash, breathing with their warning rhythm. It was a stupid prom, and before that a stupid fuck. Why does it have to have any goddamn meaning? Brian knows his uses. He can throw money at any problem and convince any company that only he knows how to sell them, he can pick up any pretty young twink he wants—but he can't stand fussing in a hospital. He can't play nervous husband. He can't.

"You got a reason why you come here in the middle of the night and hang out in the hall?" asks the nurse.

"Don't you have bed sheets to change?"

"Yeah, his." She pauses. "You ought to go in there, let him know you're with him. Hold his hand."

Brian says, "I already am," and presses his thumb into the largest stain.

_-i-_

Almost two weeks go by, and he remembers very little of them, because the routine is so familiar: treadmill, work, sex, Justin. He survives on three or four hours of sleep a night. After the first week he starts seeing Ted and Emmett at Woody's and Babylon. They clearly don't know what to say to him, and he for his part only sneers. His friends, sure. But friendship is not one of Brian's uses.

He overhears Emmett reasoning out his presence at the club, attempting some theory on hospital fears and sex-in-denial. But he says it to soothe himself, not Brian. To make excuses for the friendship. Brian has always been ruthlessly honest. Denial is pointless.

He's tired. He's angry. He wants to fuck. And he's making sure to evade Michael. Ted and Emmett, fine, whatever. They can rationalize him all they want, and he couldn't really give a shit. Mikey is different. So he doesn't answer his phone when Michael calls, and he doesn't answer the door when Michael knocks, and he avoids the diner.

Almost two weeks, and then one night he walks to the room Justin shares with other patients (other dying rejects, he thinks unkindly) and sees through the window that the bed is stripped. The machines are all off, and without their flashing he has nothing with which to time his breathing. Justin's scarf tightens around his throat.

"Hey," a woman calls, and he turns so off-balance he stumbles. The machines are _off_. The machines should not be _off_. He cannot stop this—

"He's not in there," says the night nurse behind him, regarding him with an unreadable look. "They moved him to his own room."

"And why," he asks, "would they do that?"

"Didn't someone tell you? He woke up this morning. The doctors thought he should have some privacy."

Brian taps his fingers against his hip. He must be very careful, very calm, and indeed there's only the slightest quiver of his eyebrow to suggest otherwise. "Woke up," he repeats, and remembers that his phone's been off all day.

The nurse says, "I'll take you to his new room if you want. He's probably asleep by now."

"Then I guess there's no point in me dropping by, huh? Just my luck, there's a wet T-shirt contest at Babylon tonight."

The nurse lets him walk a step or two and then calls, "He remembers you, in case you're wondering."

Brian stops.

"There's some short-term memory loss," she continues, "and some issues with his arm. Speech is pretty stilted but that's normal. He might get back to a hundred percent with physical therapy or he might not. Hard to say."

"He's a stubborn little bastard," Brian murmurs. "Does he remember anything about…?"

"As far as he's concerned, one minute he's trying on his tux and then next he's waking up in a hospital bed with the world's worst headache. Has no idea what happened to him."

"Good. Bad memories are bullshit." The scarf is still too tight around his neck. He reaches to pull it off, but thinks better of it. Thinks of several other things, in rapid succession: Justin slurring his words. Justin relearning to walk. Justin broken beyond what can be healed.

He leaves the scarf alone and heads for the door.

Annoyingly, the night nurse follows after him. "His room's the other way," she says.

"Someone somewhere must need a bedpan cleaned. I'd hate to be a distraction."

"Shut up," she says lightly. "You owe me. I shouldn't be telling you any of this. You're not his parents. Or wife."

"Thank God for that."

"Not to mention…"

"Oh, I'm sure you will."

"Your friend was complaining about you when I started my shift. About how you're frightened but won't admit it. Let me tell you, I was so close to telling him about these night sessions. Would have really ruined your reputation."

Brian glares at her. "I'm not frightened of anything," he says. "The kid was attacked. I wanted to make sure he was as strong as I thought. And what do you know? I was right." He's back in the lobby now, the exit only a few easy steps away. "His mom can hover over his bedside. Wouldn't do him any good to have another body in the way."

The nurse stops walking. '"The kid' asked for you," she says to his back.

Brian's hand is on the door handle. "Did he."

"First thing out of his mouth. His mom was with him, but he didn't say anything to her, not right away. 'Where's Brian?' That's what he wanted to know."

His free hand is on the scarf again. Where's Brian? Right where he belongs, with the damaged parts.

"And then all your friends came by, and he asked them. 'Where's Brian? Is he coming?' No one knew what to tell him."

"Tell him I'm getting my dick sucked at Babylon with the rest of _these people_. Tell him to get better real fast so he can come find me and take over."

"Why not tell him yourself?"

"You said he's sleeping."

Her eyes narrow. "I'll look the other way if you wake him up."

"_Tsk_ _tsk_, and this substandard care is what my tax dollars are getting?"

"You should stay."

"I'm not his boyfriend."

"He _asked_ for you."

"Yeah." Brian shoves open the door. "Did he slur it?"

From outside he can't hear her response. The spring heat bites through his jacket and into his skin. The scarf rests against him, keeping him warm.

_-i-_

"Asshole!"

It is—when? What day again? Brian has to blink a few times to remember that, oh yes, it's four-thirty in the morning and he's sprawled on his couch with a man moving between his naked legs. Justin woke up. Brian has just now thought to turn his phone back on, and it takes all of five seconds to go off. The guy sucking him off looks peeved, but things stop mattering when you're as high as Brian's gotten.

"'lo?" he says, holding the phone too close to his ear. "Mikey? That you?"

"Of course it's me. Where have you been? I've been trying to call you for _days_."

"Phone died."

"Justin's awake. You know, Justin, that teenager you've been screwing who's madly in love with you? The one who got his head bashed in at the prom you crashed?"

"The name rings a, _mmh_, bell." He grins into the phone, arches his hips. "Keep going," he tells whoever-the-fuck.

"It would've been nice if you'd visited him, like, at all."

"Like he'd have known I was there. He was unconscious, Mikey, not taking a nap."

"Well, he's not unconscious now."

"And I hope you were there to hold his hand."

"He doesn't want my hand, he wants yours."

"That's not all of me he wants," Brian sniggers. He opens his mouth in a silent gasp and flings his head back, sweating, all his muscles tensed. "It's a little late for you, isn't it, Mikey?"

"I'm packing. I've got a flight in an hour." The phone crackles. "Now that Justin's awake I'm going to Portland."

"Having another going away party? _Uhn. _I'll buy you the world's largest dildo. You can use it on David once you get the stick out of his ass. Ah-!"

"What? Brian, what are you doing? Are you high?"

"Have I ever told you how adorable you sound when you're mad?"

"You are! You're high."

"If you say so." His heart is pounding in his ears. Christ, he's so close, so…

"I can't believe you," Michael grouses. "You're going out every night and getting wasted, and meanwhile Justin nearly died—"

"_I know_." Brian shoves the stranger off his dick and stands up, abruptly. He's taken everything offered him tonight and he was offered quite a bit; it's all inside him now, wafting through him, curling through his lungs. Over the loud music that is only the sound of his pulse he snarls, "I never said I was a nice person."

But, and this is odd, Michael's voice doesn't sound angry as it comes over the line. "Yeah, you're a real monster," he says. "Except I can see the zipper running down your back. You're always boasting about how you're brutally honest. Why don't you just admit that you love Justin and you're scared to see him 'cause…?"

"Sorry, Mikey, gotta go. Enjoy Wyoming." Brian hits the end button, cutting Michael off mid-protest, and lets the phone drop. "Well?" he says, looking not so much at his current pick-up as through. "Weren't you busy?"

The guy complains, "This is weird shit, man." But he kneels when Brian sits down and gets back to work. Brian widens his legs and grabs the man's brown hair with both hands. He shuts his eyes. He bites his lip. He makes himself forget.

_-i-_

Only once, a couple nights later, does Brian nearly screw it up. He wakes up from a dream he can't remember, still half-high from hours ago (and the part of him that isn't high is drunk). He's naked and he's kicked all the sheets off his bed, yet he's sweating anyway. The scarf is tangled in knots around him. By now it's fraying at the edges and starting to look grey.

His phone is in his hand before he thinks to find it; his fingers dial the number he knows best. Together he and the scarf listen to the rings.

There are several things he plans to say to Michael while in this hazy, drifting state. _He woke up,_ for one. _Goddamn it,_ for another. _I don't want to sleep sober because I'm afraid of what I'll see. _And, because he is honest: _Fuck you, Mikey. Fuck your yelping about how there's nothing better than faggots in love. You shit. You liar._

But the voice that bleats out a groggy, "Hello?" is far too high-pitched to be Mikey's. "Whosit?" Emmett yawns at the other end of the line. Brian stays quiet, perplexed.

"Hel-loo? What kind of awkward boy is going to breathe into the phone at this hour? Some of us need our beauty sleep." Emmett sighs. "Y'know, this looks so much hotter when it happens in porn."

Something parts in Brian's head, the drugs or the drink making way, and he swallows a sober curse. Fabric rustles as Emmett wakes up enough to remember the caller I.D. "Brian…?" he asks. Concern seeps into his voice. "You ok? If, uh, if you wanted Michael he's in Portland, remember? I figured he left you his new number. Hey, I went by the hospital this afternoon and Justin asked—"

Brian hangs up.

_-i-_

He watches from the hallway window, a spectral presence as Justin gets better day by day. Usually he's asleep when Brian's there, but sometimes he'll still be at physical therapy, pushing himself to exhaustion catching a ball or picking up a pen, over and over. His right side has taken the brunt of the attack, his right hand especially; Brian watches Justin curl it against his chest at any minor surprise, any door slam or raised voice. Instinctively the kid pulls into himself, jutting his good shoulder forward for protection.

Justin is nothing if not determined. The night nurse tells Brian this, frowning at him like she always does. Every morning he throws himself out of bed and into therapy, too busy to say hello to visitors. He gets frustrated easily: Brian watches him fail at picking up paperclips until finally he scowls and knocks the whole container off the table. He looks older than he should, but also painfully young.

Still, even in his blackest moods Justin is propelled by some inner force. The moment the paper clips scatter he's on his hands and knees, trying to pick them up.

Brian watches.

Justin is hurt. Justin jumps at loud noises and spills water in his lap trying hold a mug. But Justin is obstinate, always. Brian is reminded that he never actually _wanted_ the kid in his life. He wanted another quick fuck. It was Justin who wouldn't leave him alone, no matter how much shit Brian made him take.

He came back. He kept coming back. He faced down his parents and his teachers and his Neanderthal classmates. He did that much.

(He walked along Liberty Avenue, bewildered and unnerved but _there_, and Brian scooped him up and brought him home and was his first. Pushed into him—and Justin took the whole of him, even as a virgin his body wanted everything Brian gave—looked into his eyes, told him, "You'll remember me. No matter who fucks you. You'll always think of me.")

In this way a month goes by, and the scarf…Brian is used to the tug of its limbs on his frame. Life could keep unchanged forever. He is so, so tired, and he doesn't care if he never sleeps again. In fact, he'd very much like to stay awake. Even in a dump like Pittsburgh there's an endless stream of men to fuck and drugs to take and—and in Babylon, Brian has found, the back room goes on for an eternity of color and noise.

He doesn't hang out with Ted and Emmett. He doesn't respond to Mikey's emails. He stops by to see Gus only when he knows Lindsey's too frazzled to lecture. He goes to Babylon and has sex, and each time he orgasms the world goes fuzzy and familiar and he knows that who he was is who he is and who he'll always be.

Then Mikey comes back to Pittsburgh and, naturally, ruins everything

Their reunion is less than auspicious. Brian is in the process of being sucked off by two men at once (the fun part is he doesn't remember exactly when the second guy showed up) and doesn't really have time for Mikey's moralizing, or his pouts. Fortunately Babylon's back room is Brian's domain, not Michael's. He's seen its nooks and crannies from behind the safety of his closed eyes. His best friend is easy to lose.

That night he's so itchy in his own skin that he snorts poppers in the hospital proper. Usually he saves it for the parking lot, at least, but it's raining and Michael's back and Justin is thrashing in bed with a nightmare.

Dangerous, dangerous. Brian's exposed with Michael around. The keeper of all his childhood secrets was there to see him crying in a hospital hallway. Dangerous.

But he thinks he can weather the worst of it. He stays away from Justin for the next couple of days, just in case. Even when Michael drops by the loft and says he's going to stop by the hospital, Brian isn't worried. A nasty comment, a sneer, and what can Mikey do but get upset? He'll leave and Brian's last secret will be safe and he can go to Liberty Avenue, home of everything that isn't the trauma ward. Screw Mikey's patronizing shit. Was Mikey a step behind no matter how fast he ran? Did he soak his hands with blood trying to find a pulse? Did he get shoved into a corner of a screaming ambulance, getting high off car fumes, numb all the way through?

Michael is powerless, because he wasn't there and didn't see. Brian is in control, because he was and he did. He's confident of this, so confident he saunters into Woody's without a thought, cruises a little, drinks a lot; lets Michael berate him about isolating himself, Michael who's resorted to a life of snobbery in Portland, that's fucking rich; puts a hand to his chest when he says he's fine and because he can feel the scarf underneath his shirt it's the truth. He's so goddamn _stupid_ he strolls off to the bathroom and comes back minutes later to Mikey yelling at him, "Are you just gonna fucking stand there?" and in confusion he looks past his very powerful best friend and Justin Taylor stares back.

_-i-_

Ten minutes ago, at the bar, Michael called him a fall-down mess. Brian had laughed at the indignation in his voice. Now he'll need to take the jeering and hang himself with it.

Justin's at Woody's, in a sweatshirt and loose jeans, cowering at one corner of the bar. After a month his hair's grown back enough to cover the scars, but his bad hand is tucked against his chest. The bar is filled with curious queers, it's absolutely the lion's den, and yet here Justin is! Bracing against the human tide! The silly idiot.

What else can Brian do but take him home?

Michael drives them both back to the loft. Justin sits up front, Brian in the back, and no one speaks. Brian bites his lip so hard it hurts. He's being smothered. There are hands squeezing around his neck. Questions broil through him, settle in his mind like silt. When did they let Justin out of the hospital? What the hell did he think would happen if he went to a gay bar so soon after the most infamous gay bashing in years? Why is Brian so god forsakenly _sober_, with all he's had to drink and snort?

Then they're at the apartment and Michael is gone and Justin wants to talk about his injury as if nothing happened. He doesn't remember anything, so he talks casually about what others have told him of Chris Hobbs's beating, grinning like it's a good joke. All the while Brian has his hands pressed so tight around a glass of water his fingers hurt. There's an ocean's worth of space between the two of them. "If he'd hit me another inch over I'd be a vegetable," Justin comments, and Brian thinks, oh, is _that_ all?

"They had to drill through my skull to release all the blood."

"Cool." He's going to vomit.

"They said I might never be able to draw again."

"Yeah, well," Brian says. Brian babbles, pacing about the room. If he can build a wall of words he'll be safe from Justin asking—

"Why didn't you come see me?" He sounds so polite, the martyr taking his lashes. Meanwhile Brian kneads his hand against his chest, searching out the spilled and salvaged blood.

"I'm not your occupational therapist," he says. "I'm not your mother holding your hand. So there was really nothing I could have done for you."

He says it meanly. He says it knowing he's hurting Justin word by word. He says it because it's the truth, no matter what he does or wants or dreams about.

Silence, for a bit. None of it matters. Justin doesn't remember his prom, the _best night of his life_. Maybe Brian's been carrying the stains of his memories, too.

"Daphne says we danced. She says we were amazing."

"We were alright."

Justin beams. But just as quickly it falters. "Shit," he whispers. "I wish I could remember that."

(That white smile, those teasing eyes. Brian wrapping the silk scarf around Justin's slender neck. Oh, enough, enough of all of it.)

Justin keeps talking, describing the attack like a narrator in an old film. It's distant from him, the victim, all thanks to brain damage. But Brian sees the concrete, sees the cars, sees the bat. Sees the bored malice on the faces of the other students as he and Justin danced. Did Justin not notice? If outcasts want to survive they have to invent their own rules. Brian saw it. Sees it still.

Sees himself sliding into the Jeep, satisfied as the hyena with its kill. His territory marked in white silk, for him to piss on or throw away. Brave Brian Kinney, going to prom on his own terms!

Sees Justin walking away, swinging his arms, lost in his own fantasy world.

Sees the figure come up behind him, tense, moving fast, holding the bat.

Sees himself lunge out of the car, sees himself run, sees Chris Hobbs walk faster, sees the bat lift on the upswing. And…

_Justin!_

Sees the smile. Sees Justin smile as he turns to look.

"It wasn't your fault," says Justin softly. Brian won't meet his eyes. Justin doesn't know anything about fault, about blame. He's a romantic. True love, happy endings. But the problem with happy endings is they don't end anything. The noises don't quiet. The sights don't settle.

At least the bloodstains on the scarf never washed out. That sort of integrity Brian can appreciate.

But Justin thinks he's being honest, too. When Brian won't face him he walks around and faces Brian. "It wasn't your fault," he says again, and touches his shoulder.

When they embrace Brian is surprised to feel flesh under his fingers. Skin instead of fabric. He grips Justin to him and the body is living and the kid is alive.

And he will castigate himself again, for getting into a Jeep, for calling out, for that smile. Because he is always honest.

_-i-_

He thinks at first that he should take off the scarf, now that Justin is back. Now that he can touch him again there's no need for substitutions. Things can go back to normal. Except that Justin still flinches every time someone coughs near him. Except Justin would probably have a panic attack in Babylon. Except nothing feels normal. But these are minor details, more or less.

Brian stands in his bathroom balling the scarf in his hand, staring at himself in the mirror. His body feels barren without it. He remembers Justin talking in his living room, shrugging off the assault, and knows that nothing has been saved.

He wraps the scarf around his neck: a challenge to Justin, to Mikey, to his own reflection. A challenge and a shield.

And that shield proves useful in the next weeks. He can congratulate himself on being prepared. When the judge lets Chris Hobbs off with community service, Brian isn't fazed. His response, gluing the judge to a toilet, is a prank straight out of high school, something only Mikey picks up on; he tells himself it's enough because he's wearing the scarf. Penance is still being served.

When Justin's mom tells him to stop seeing her son and all he can muster is a lame, "I care about him," he knows he's made a good choice. When Ms. Taylor says outside her house with her voice shaking, "It was because of you he was almost killed," and all he can do is stare dumbly at her, mouth open, he knows he was right.

He doesn't argue with her. She says he's taken her son away and it's true, but it's also bullshit. He didn't ask for their lives to become so entangled. He cares about Justin? Maybe, but that was a mistake, because Brian never cares, doesn't even know what caring means. To him it looks like Mikey whining over control-freak David, or Ted letting some drug addict break his heart. Caring is why his bitch mother put up with his bastard father all his life, and that was a sacrifice that served no one.

He doesn't know how the mess started but it's being cleared away now, and that's a good thing. He can cut Justin out like a cancerous mass, he can go back to being the Brian Kinney who never got pitying looks from his friends, he can forget about the prom and never give the scarf back, to anyone.

Maybe Brian cares about Justin. But Justin is strong enough to fight his own demons. He'll have to be. There's nothing more Brian can do.

_-i-_

There is freedom in severing ties, not heartache. It's easy to cast off baggage. Most people cling to it, but Brian douses his with lighter fluid and doesn't hesitate to strike the match.

(And if he's still wearing the scarf it means only that he needs to remember not to let wide-eyed virgins fall in love with him.)

Mikey says he's single and staying in Pittsburgh, but Brian is protected. They go to Babylon and he doesn't feel like dancing and Mikey complains that he'd always dance with _Justin_, but Brian is protected. He helps Lindsey put together a baby swing for Gus and she says he should call Justin's mom, but Brian is protected.

Justin shows up at his front door, jumpy from the walk over, and tries to slip inside. Brian tells him to go away, watching the fright close in on his face. Justin protests, shrilly. He can't hear what Brian hears, the crack of the bat and _it was because of you. _He stands howling, "But _why_?" at the door for five minutes after Brian slams it in his face.

Brian is protected by his cruelty.


	3. Part 3

But Brian is wrong.

Brian is wrong because Justin is stubborn: everyone says so and no one knows the depths of it. He's nervous as hell in crowds, yet when he didn't see Brian at his bedside he marched to Woody's on a mission. He doesn't remember being attacked, yet he won't stop talking about it, trying to force it through, to reclaim his night and shed the title of victim.

Brian throws him out. In response he goes home and trashes his room, screams at his mom, doesn't call Brian over and over only because his little sister hid the phone. They're trying to shield him and he shoves them aside.

He has awesome nightmares and refuses to go to physical therapy. He calls himself ugly names, searching for his critical flaw, the reason Brian would follow orders for once in his life. He barely speaks to Daphne. He won't eat.

Brian hears all of this from Ms. Taylor, who slumps against his breakfast bar, worrying the strap of her purse. She tells him that the separation was a mistake. She tells him that she wants him to make love to her son again, or hold him, or sit next to him…anything. Any scrap of affection.

He only just manages to keep from telling her to shove the whole maudlin story up her ass.

The strain of it is _over_. The martyr's gift has been rejected, the cancer cells can't be reabsorbed. Justin will move on, or he won't and sucks for him, but Brian can't carry more blood that isn't his. Justin can't have him. He's said it before. Whose fault is it if the kid never listened?

Brian can't heal anyone. That isn't one of his uses. And he doesn't want to hear about Justin's suffering; he sees it enough in the mirror.

He wants to tell Ms. Taylor to take her son and move the hell out of Pittsburgh. Move to New York, move to L.A., move to the other edge of the galaxy, whatever it takes. He wants to tell her to take her eldest and run.

He doesn't tell her any of that; despite what his friends would say he does have some sense of self-control. Instead he goes to his fridge, takes things out, slams them around his counter. "You're the one he trusts," she says, thinking it's a compliment.

"That's nice," says Brian, and bangs a jar harder against the counter.

"So you'll do it?"

"God, now straight women are asking me that."

"I thought-…"

"Yeah, I'm curious, what exactly did you think?"

"I thought you'd be happy." She swallows. "You said before you cared about him. I thought you wanted to, to be with him. Again."

"Actually, you know what I want?" He stops destroying his cutting board long enough to frown at her. "I want to take a shower, round up the boys and head to Babylon. I want to find the hottest guy there and fuck his brains out. And then tomorrow I want to go to work, come home and do it all again, minus the _soap opera_ in my living room. A year ago there wasn't any of this drama bullshit in my life, and if it's all the same to you, I'd like to go back to that."

Ms. Taylor's eyes flicker downwards. She straightens off his breakfast bar, slings her purse over her shoulder, and says wearily, "I'd like that too. So would my son." Brian's jaw tightens and he keeps his eyes on his sandwich. Ms. Taylor reaches his front door, then turns around and says, "You're lucky. You can go back."

Brian waits until the door closes behind her. Then he takes his sandwich and dumps it into the trash, cutting board and all.

_-i-_

He could go back if he could figure out what to do with the scarf. Throw it out? Wear it forever? Leave it outside Mikey's door as a piece of vindication? Give it to Justin's mom and say, "Here, are you satisfied?"

It was his amulet at first but it's beginning to feel like his anchor to lug around. He doesn't want to be the Brian Kinney who's scared to take it off. Lately the assholes in Woody's have started calling him a hero, and they're only half-joking. He doesn't want that, either.

Some hours after Ms. Taylor leaves his loft his cell phone rings. He's in bed, alone for once, with nothing on but his boxers and his burden. Idly he runs his hands along the fraying edges, nails catching the loose strings. The phone's ringing disgusts him, but so does everything else tonight: Justin's mom, his apartment, the fact that he's too drained to go to Babylon and get laid. With his focus elsewhere he holds the phone to his ear and growls, "What?"

"I found the phone, finally. But my mom took forever to fall asleep."

"Justin."

"I didn't think you'd be home. I wanted to talk to you but I figured you'd be at Babylon."

"Justin, what are you doing?"

"Talking to you," he says, filled with false cheer. "My mom's such a bitch. Telling you to go away. But you didn't have to listen to her."

"Maybe I listened to her because I agreed with her." Brian unravels another string with his free hand, wrapping it around his finger tight enough to cut off blood flow. "Maybe you should get over it."

"Stop it." Justin's voice takes on new urgency. When he gets upset a muscle pulses in his jaw and his eyes widen, as if to change the situation through sheer force of will. Brian imagines him huddled on his bed, wearing that look now as he hisses into the phone. "That's crap. You know that's crap. Why did you even bother to go to the prom if that's how you felt?"

"Misplaced sentimentality. Too much to drink. Nothing good on TV."

"I'm serious, Brian!"

"So am I." With a furious tug he snaps the string. "Listen, I know it's hard to believe, but you can get by just fine without me. If you're that hung up on my cock start a fan club, but leave me out of it. It's better that way."

Justin says, "No, _you_ listen. I don't need you, or my mom, or anyone else mapping my life out for me. Alright? I know what's best for me."

"I really doubt that. If you did, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Oh, shut up. You've got no right to act all high and mighty. Suddenly you don't give a shit about me, right? Even though you came to my prom, and _danced_ with me, in front of all those people. And I thought you were always so honest."

"I am," he snarls. "And in case you forgot, one of those people put you in the hospital for a month."

"I don't care! Fuck them, fuck Chris Hobbs, fuck the hospital. I'm not gonna run and hide because Chris is lunatic. It was _my_ prom, and it is _my_ life, and being a psychopath is his problem—"

"_It's my problem too._"

On the other end of the line Justin falls silent, taken aback. Brian's head is buzzing, and he's so angry the room before him ripples. "You don't remember," he all-but shouts, not bothering to smother the rage. "I do. I had a fucking front row seat to the worst show in the world."

He's standing now, standing and pacing, knuckles white around the phone, scarf flaring at his hips. "Yeah," he says, "I came to your prom, and I danced with you in front of all your classmates, and it was ever so romantic except for the part where you almost died. And I was the one who saw it, I was the one who got your blood all over me trying to see if you were even still alive, and _I'm_ the lucky son of a bitch who gets to watch it all over again every—single—fucking—night. So forgive me, Justin, if distance sounds like a good idea."

Brian needs a drink. He needs several drinks. He stalks across the living room to dig up his liquor stash and while he does so Justin is so quiet he half-thinks they've been disconnected.

"I'm sorry, Brian." Justin is hushed, chastened. Brian grimaces, with his free hand clutching a bottle of scotch.

"Why the fuck are you apologizing?" he mutters, trying to pry open the bottle one-handed. "It was his fault, not yours."

Justin says softly, "But you're punishing me."

With his teeth bared Brian kicks over his computer chair. The noise it makes toppling over onto the hardwood isn't as satisfying as he'd hoped. "I'm not _punishing_ you."

"I'm sorry you saw it. I know you liked your life the way it was and I'm complicating everything, I know I am, but, but Brian, please. I want to see you. Please, I just…"

"Stop begging," he orders. It's sickening that Justin thinks Brian's the one with the power here. Can't the kid hear the frailty in his voice? "You don't beg me, you don't beg anyone. No one's worth it. Understand?"

"Brian, I—"

"I mean it. _You don't beg_." He forgets the scotch and collapses onto the couch, a hand to his head and the pounding that is starting there. "Keep your dignity," he says. "You're the only one in this shithole city who deserves it."

Justin is silent for a minute. "Fine," he says at last. "I'm not begging. Tomorrow's Saturday, you don't have work and if I don't get out of the house I'm gonna lose it. Pick me up at noon. And don't be late."

Brian doesn't say anything. The scarf is around his neck and the bloodstains haven't faded and he is Brian Kinney who follows no orders and keeps no one close. That's the person he's used to. That's the person he expects.

The white smile. _It was because of you._ The sinuous body, the animated eyes. _I'm not his boyfriend._ The love-sick teenager who won't hide his affection just because Brian wants him to. God, Justin is the best fuck he's ever had, the smartest and most hungry. _Why didn't you come see me?_

And Mikey clucking, "I can see the zipper running down your back…"

His talisman's terrible weight.

"Brian? I know you heard me." Justin says, brisk but with a teasing edge, "You better show up, asshole. If I have to come find you I'll be pissed."

"Yeah," Brian manages. "Seeing you all hot and bothered, that's a real shame."

"I knew you missed me."

"Missed your ass, maybe."

"I have a great ass. I'm probably the hottest guy in Pittsburgh."

"You're a whiny teenager with a nipple piercing."

"I don't have the piercing," Justin groans. "They took it off in the hospital and I think my mom told them to throw it out. Hey, that's what we can do tomorrow." He lowers his voice, and his inexperienced seduction should be laughable, but Brian gets a jolt of heat straight to his groin. "Buy a new one."

Brian dips his voice to match, keeping it at a steady drawl. A hum that never fails to have everyone he meets cumming down their jeans. The difference is that for once he's equally aroused.

He says, "Did you really just ask me if I wanted to go _ring-shopping_ with you? You must have more brain damage than I thought. Better get back to the emergency room, and tell them it's serious."

"Sure. I'll show some cute, rich, _young_ doctor my nipples instead."

Brian props his feet on the couch's armrest, and rolls his eyes. "Don't count on it," he says without thinking. "I saw every doctor, nurse, and bedpan boy in that place. You could do better in a funeral home."

Justin sounds puzzled. "How do you know what the doctors look like?" he asks. "You never came to the hospital."

"Mikey told me," he snaps, wishing again for the scotch he'd carelessly tossed aside, "and I've fucked half of them before."

"Only half?" Justin hesitates, the silence pressing into Brian's ear. "You can tell me about them tomorrow. Ok?"

Brian looks down at his bare chest. Unharmed, he wears the wounds of others like a badge.

"Brian?"

"Justin," he says, unwillingly, because it would be far easier to go along with it, to take whatever else Justin has to give and run. It would be easy…

"You're going to regret it," he says. "If I come tomorrow."

No response; the scarf tightening its loving grip. Then:

Justin says, "Try me."

_-i-_

It doesn't happen right away. Brian Kinney is a man who has no use for change, who is attracted to the old ways because he knows they work. He can hold Justin's arm as they walk down the street, but that doesn't mean he's doing any good. The first time they try to have sex ends in Justin slumped on the bed, head in his hands, and Brian wants to shake him and say, "I fucking _told_ you." Brian, who took off the scarf when they undressed, kept it hidden under his vest, but who still feels it scratching his skin.

Not that Justin would listen. He clamps his arm around Brian's, takes a breath and shoves himself out into the world and somehow it's enough for him. Brian wonders if he'd push himself as hard if their situations were reversed. Why doesn't the kid lose himself in the excuses he's been given? What the hell is driving Justin?

Brian is Justin's shield in busy places and his reassurance when others want to treat him like he's broken, but the one thing he never does is ask Justin why he's fighting so hard—because he thinks he knows the answer. And he thinks the answer isn't one he's equipped to handle.

He can't play husband, after all. There are a lot of things he cannot do.

But Justin won't hear him. Justin holds Brian's arm and says he's fine.

It doesn't happen right away, but it does happen one night, after Gus's party, after the memories of prom return, after Brian sees Justin's face go hideously blank and pulls him into an embrace because he doesn't know what else to do besides hold the body of the man he loves (but he will never, ever, know how to love) and try to keep it safe.

They're in the blue-lit shelter of Brian's bed, shrouded, away from the world, and Justin says, "You called out. You tried to save me. Why didn't you tell me that?"

And Justin, who will not be dissuaded, adds, "I'm glad one of us remembered." He kisses Brian with a tenderness that shouldn't match. His hands nest in Brian's collar and slip lower, ghosting over the buttons of his shirt as his lips ghost Brian's neck. It's a terrible thing, to see the future, to see yourself made vulnerable.

Justin's hands still. He looks confused at first, squinting in the dim light, because it was eighty degrees today, not scarf weather at all. Brian could shake off his touch, call him names, throw him out of the apartment, but he sits quietly instead. He watches Justin's expression turn from confusion to surprise to something else entirely.

A sad understanding comes into Justin's eyes (does he see the future now, too? is he afraid? does he realize they will hurt each other, again and again?) and with careful movements he pulls the silk scarf off Brian's neck. Brian's instinct, honed these past weeks, is to snatch it from his fingers, but he doesn't. Justin holds it a moment, not really looking at it, or his blood on it. He looks at Brian instead. Then he lets it drop. By the time it hits the floor it shows itself for what it's always been, a discarded rag, torn and dingy from over-use.

Brian without it is light enough that his limbs seem to float. He puts his hands on Justin and the kid doesn't flinch: he goes as slow as he can stand and Justin starts to moan. This is real, these noises, this sight. This is what is happening, now. And Brian could reach the ceiling, could reach past Pittsburgh, then further still.


End file.
